


double action semi-automatic

by fiordilatte



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Face-Fucking, Gunplay, Hate Sex, M/M, Post-Series, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiordilatte/pseuds/fiordilatte
Summary: Inaho lectures Slaine on firearms safety while getting fucked over a table.  Should have paid more attention in basic training.





	double action semi-automatic

**Author's Note:**

> mood: Ti Amo by Phoenix

_Assume the firearm is loaded._

You’ve made Commander now. It’s a shiny title, with countless accomplishments and accolades, each reflected on your professional UFE military record. You’ve led dozens of sorties, with ranks of soldiers unquestioningly following your lead. Your career has been successful beyond precedent, and you’re lauded as a prodigy while the plaques and medals gather dust.

So it doesn’t bother anyone or strike your staff as unusual when you spend your downtime with Slaine Troyard of the Vers Empire. His file is heavily classified, and only meant to be viewed by a select few pair of eyes up the command chain. Data collection has become a favourite hobby of yours.

It’s true that dead Counts don’t talk, but you can still tell the press whatever they need to hear. And _he_ tells you everything. All you have to do is wait. Sometimes you and Slaine play chess. Other times you discuss, one-sidedly, the finer points of tactical firearms.

You wouldn’t be useful to me if you were really dead, you said to him once, and he punched you in your one good eye and laughed until he forgot how to feel. That’s not something you inferred from observation; he told you, and even you saw the blankness in his eyes and heard the defeat in his voice. That was the one time he didn’t start with a lie.

It gets lost in translation, more often than you’d like. You need to be reading between the lines, picking up on subtext and tangential remarks. It would help if you were more empathetic, you suppose - but it’s not easy to reprogram your own human brain (although you did try). So you search and grasp for the right words - words that always seem like they’re just out of reach, pretenses and formalities that feel like they skirt around the facts.

You humour him with your broken Danish, your normally clever tongue tripping over foreign vowels and the way they seem to blend together. And you use his birth name, just to watch him flinch in his seat.

I’m under your skin, Søren, and it makes you angry and I want you to _hate_ me. And I want to hurt you. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

_Control the direction of the muzzle._

Because...

_Trigger finger must be kept off the trigger and out of the trigger guard._

I want a reaction.

And this is the only way I’m going to get it.

...Maybe one day the two of us will get along.

In prison, _fuck you Kaizuka_ is a much less angry nickname than _Orange_ \- you prefer it, anyway. Feels more suitable. It’s easier to wear than Orange, which is chock-full of venom and doesn’t fit with the rest of the badges that are neatly lined up on your breast pocket. You’re not one to play politics, but the UFE still has a narrative to meet.

_See that the firearm is unloaded._

Slaine recites the steps dully from the seat next to you. Dutiful, but listless. Bored and uninspired. He doesn’t talk like a soldier; doesn’t act like one, either. Maybe he forgot how to. His posture has worsened over time, and he lets his shoulders hunch. His arms are crossed defensively over his chest, and his unkempt hair is pulled back in a red elastic. He tries to make himself as small as he can.

Still, his eyes have never lost their hold on you.

Parabellum, he’d said once, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into an attempt of a smile. If you want peace, prepare for war.

You’d thought, then, if that was why it had been so easy for him to climb Vers’ ranks. He’s handsome and reckless, with nothing to lose. His voice is easy to get lost in. Anyone could get carried away.

There was a flare of heat, of _something_ , before it was replaced by unending monotony. Useless emotions get recycled. They flow back through you, and you wipe them clean and resume your interrogations as usual.

Is the Latin necessary? you had asked him. Just say what you mean.

Don’t you like to pretend that what we have is meaningful? he’d retorted. Softly. Slyly. Still with some resistance left in him.

Metaphors aren’t really my thing. You were honest. Blunt. Your sister Yuki would probably say _tactless_ , and the two of you would agree to disagree.

It’s a fun game to play, though, with its clever little machinations. Break Slaine Troyard and put the pieces back together again. Make him hate you, make him believe that he has control of his actions. Then take it all away, bit by bit, piece by piece, through the struggle and the pain and the rage. You want to see the tears streak his perfect face, to watch the hollowed out despair consume him. Sometimes, even you think you can feel something.

You destroyed this person, tore him apart and dissected him until he begged for you to stop.

You’re not really human, after all. But the instincts are still there, twisted somewhere deep inside you.

So the lesson continues, eternally, until Slaine - _Søren_ \- learns. You gesture to the gun on the table. It’s empty, now, and inoperable, but he’ll still try to load it and and point it at you every once in a while.

Show me the steps, you order, not mincing words. You’ve laid out all the tools right here for him in surgical neatness: a polymer handgun, an empty magazine, and a box of dummy sample ammunition. A steady hum from the bright overhead lights masks the silence.

In a fit of irritation, Slaine snatches the magazine from the table and closes his fist around it, blue eyes narrowing in distrust. He’s developed a nail-biting habit; you notice how his pale fingers taper off to ragged ends. He takes a cartridge from the box and glances at you questioningly, although he’s too proud to ask for direction. You watch his thumbs push cartridges into the magazine one by one, forcing them to fit in line. He’s clumsy, fingers catching on the metal and letting ammunition drop to the floor.

With some effort, Slaine slams the magazine into the gun and sets the freshly loaded pistol back onto the table, taking extra care to ensure that the muzzle is pointed in your direction. He’s tired of your games, but he always remembers to be insolent.

Good job, you say, almost meaning it. You lean up into him, catching his unyielding lips with your own. The softness takes Slaine aback - he doesn’t reciprocate, but he doesn’t protest, either. He asks you _why_ and you kiss him again, letting your tongue flick against his lips so that you can avoid giving answers. He bites you in retaliation, and the taste of warm copper in your mouth sends you reeling.

You don’t deserve to know him this intimately, but you’re the only one in the world who’s gotten this close.

Haven’t I earned it? you’d asked.

He’d stared at you, but shrugged. I never promised you anything.

You inch your chair back and drop to the floor in front of him. Even through the thick material of your uniform, the concrete is cold to the touch. You start slow, your head between his legs, palming the familiar hardness and hearing the equally familiar groan.

Control your breathing, Slaine, you remind him. Lowering your face into his lap, you breathe in the smell of soap and musk as you pull his half-erect cock free.

Shut _up_. It comes out in a snarl.

So you do - for now. You work his length with your hands, stroking him gently while you circle the tip of your tongue over the head. You lick the underside of his cock and run your tongue along his shaft, making it slick and shiny with saliva. He’s already been inside you so many times.

_Point the firearm in the safest available direction._

He shoves your head down without warning, digging his fingers into the back of your scalp as you struggle for air. Suck it, Slaine murmurs. He’s stronger than you; always has been.

_Remove all ammunition._

The tip of his engorged cock pushes past your lips, and he forces himself to the back of your throat, inch by inch.

_Observe the chamber._

You gag, taking him in as deep as you’re able, wondering how far the two of you can make this depravity go. You keep thinking about how it all got so strangely complicated - and it frustrates you because you just wanted everything to be black and white. Clinical and unfeeling. Files in a database.

_Verify the feeding path._

He’s rough, and it hurts. Fingers tangled in your hair while you choke on his cock. Your eye starts to water.

Slaine swears, his voice gaining an edge. Keep your head up, he says. Look at me.

_Examine the bore._

You’re on your knees with Slaine Troyard’s cock pulsing in your mouth, rammed down your throat just the way you both like it. He’s got you pinned, and he knows you won’t struggle.

He fucks your face without remorse or embarrassment - the shame faded away a long time ago, but the rage never left.

Your lips slide all the way down to the base, whether you like it or not. You’re obedient, panting around him, struggling to fit it all in. Political clout is useless in a boxed-off room like this. Here you can be honest about what you want. Transient pleasures.

Hesitantly, you touch yourself, your own arousal so hard it hurts. You fumble with your belt, letting your pants slide past your hips. Slaine pushes your head firmly back into his lap, and you hear yourself moan around him, your mouth crammed so full of cock that your throat feels raw.

You use a nine millimetre semi-automatic, personally. Standard UFE issue pistol. Nothing special. It’s got a plastic body, but it’s reliable and sturdy. Light recoil and a smooth trigger pull. Precise, clean lines.

Chamber the first cartridge and count each round: one, two, three, four...

You line up your sights and take a deep breath before each pull of the trigger, gaze focused on your target. In one fluid motion, you cock and release the hammer. The firing pin strikes the centre of your cartridge, igniting the powder charge. The metal casing is ejected and the bullet is propelled forward.

Slaine comes, a small gasp escaping his lips. He loosens his grip on your head, leaving your scalp tingling and your jaw aching. You swallow as much as you can take, feeling the cum spill down your throat and drip down your chin.

Now shoot me, you say.

Five...

You remember when you were fifteen years old, and how simple it was. You would load cartridges into your magazine and fire holes into the paper targets that you and your classmates put up on the range. You were always a good shot.

Then you turned seventeen, and it was even easier, your aim becoming so impeccable that you could shoot any target with any firearm. A marksman who couldn’t miss. For a while, you were perfect and infallible.

Slaine Troyard never did get comfortable with firearms. He’s uneasy just holding it, constantly adjusting his grip and shifting his stance. His palms are slippery with sweat, and his lanky body is tense again. His shoulders are stiff, his posture awkward; you can hear the breath catching in his throat. You watch him fumble nervously just like he did years ago, his eyes wide and on the verge of tears.

He’s scared, and it shows. Better yet, he’s _angry_.

Angry enough to empty an entire magazine into a living, breathing person. Ten bullets. Hot metal sinking into flesh and bone. So much blood. He’s got that look in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, makes your pulse quicken. He wants to watch you writhe.

And you see the hard lines of his mouth, the way he sets his jaw. The pure hate that he directs at you.

He’s beautiful, like this. Your untainted student, your eternal rival. Until you defile him.

Again and again, unceasingly without fail.

I’m terrified, Slaine says, his hand still on the gun, one slender finger hovering just outside the trigger guard. Of what she thinks. Of what everyone thinks.

Everyone doesn’t include _Kaizuka Inaho_ , of course.

Safety first, you remind him, your eye flicking over the muzzle of the gun. Watch where you’re pointing it.

He swallows, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. Isn’t that a little too late, Commander?

You shrug, easily. It’s in my best interests to teach you.

Is this funny to you?

A little, you think, but you keep that to yourself.

What do you do if there’s a misfire? you ask, your warm breath on the soft tip of his cock. You can still taste him on your lips.

He laughs. His eyes glint, and there’s a glimpse of mirth. Then I shoot you again. Until I don’t miss. Until I _never_ miss.

That’s the wrong answer, but you let him lift you up by the waist and slam you against the table. Its thin metal legs screech against the concrete, and you wonder, vaguely, if you should have had it bolted to the floor.

He clamps one hand around your throat, making you gag again. Although you’ve gotten accustomed to him over the years, you know he’s not going to be gentle. He always leaves a mark.

Slaine presses his thumb against your hole, and you take it in, moaning softly as you adjust to the intrusion. He pumps his fingers into you without care or tenderness, each digit sliding in up to the knuckle.

Six...

You feel him nudge up against your ass, the soft tip of his cock still slippery with your saliva. I hate you, he says, his voice low and raspy.

But you still want me, you think. You raise your hips for him, silently inviting. You can almost feel his eyes on you, raking over the arch of your back and the curve of your ass. His hand tightens over your throat and you sputter, once again unable to breathe freely.

He pushes his thick cock into you as you splay your fingers across the table, looking for purchase but of course finding none. Fuck, he whispers. He likes this part. Slaine drives the rhythm. His fingers dig into your hips as he sinks his eager cock into your ass.

His voice turns guttural, deep, strikes a strange imbalance in you; he sets you off-kilter and spinning out of control. It’s a very specific kind of degeneracy.

You lift your hips to match his thrusts, suddenly desperate for a good fucking. The table shakes beneath your combined weight; the ammunition box rattles and tips over, sending cartridges rolling. Slaine takes you recklessly, uses your body as selfishly as he can. You struggle to relax, muscles tensing around him as he violates you again and again.

The gun rests quietly on the edge of the table, meticulously loaded and ready to be fired.

Seven-eight- _nine_. Aim, click, release: fire. You always liked the clean mechanical sounds.

And he fucks you until you can’t think, until logic siphons its way out of your brain and all you see is white.

Until the awful words he whispers in your ear make you moan unintelligibly.

Until you almost become convinced that he was right, after all.

Kaizuka, you little _slut_. His voice is hoarse, and it takes some effort, but it still makes your hackles raise. Still makes your heart miss a beat. Like an animal.

Slaine, you mutter, trying not to scream. Your whole body tenses. Søren. There’s a _hiss_ on the S, sharper than usual, and your voice wobbles and cracks on the syllables of his name. Sweat slides down your inner thighs as he ploughs into you.

He fucks you through your orgasm, rams into you as your knees buckle and saliva drips from the corner of your mouth, as you shudder and gasp and clench down on him -

And all.

You.

Want.

Is to know Slaine Troyard.

And, maybe -

(one day)

\- be able to love him.

A few more quick stabs and he climaxes, too, filling your ass with hot cum. From the corner of your eye, you watch ammunition roll to the floor, metallic pings echoing off the glass walls of your interrogation room. If it’s not chambered, your cartridge is useless. There’s no pressure, no ignition; the bullet never leaves its casing. It just falls to the ground, unused and forgotten. Scrap metal and a bit of gunpowder.

Don’t call me that, Slaine says. He reaches for the gun again, and you twist around to face him while he racks the slide. Safety’s off, Kaizuka. Did I pass this time?

_Acquire sight picture._

He smiles, then finally squeezes the trigger.

(It doesn’t matter.)

Ten.

(He always misses.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! this was a joke that turned into a style experiment haha  
> and thus concludes my gun safety psa about inaho choking on a dick, kms  
> regarding the title: although Inaho could possibly prefer a striker-fired pistol (ex. Glock 17), I think double actions with hammers (ex. H&K P30, Beretta M9) are cooler :3c  
> //and that’s the waaaaayyy the news goes


End file.
